


Rainbow Gills

by AClever_Username



Series: Somewhere to go [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: And having a home, But also having a small existential crisis about it, But not really explicit, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Dw though still mostly fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Fish, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humour?, I Tried, In - depth description of dog petting, Initially this was just about mentioning that fish but here we are, Mostly Connor deciding he likes petting Sumo, Not Beta Read, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Tbh a lot more angsty than I was expecting, just my kind of subtle weird brand, just protect my soft android boi at all costs, which is the quality content we all deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 22:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15827880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AClever_Username/pseuds/AClever_Username
Summary: Connor may have figured out home, but he's still figuring out himself, and what it is to be alive.





	Rainbow Gills

**Author's Note:**

> Just to let you know there is a prequel to this. I'm sure you'll pick it up if you don't want to read that though. Also I'd already written about the remote when it occurred to me that literally no other character uses a remote with their TV but stfu we are all going to pretend Hank's is outdated or something. I hope this is worth your time.

~~Hank’s house~~ _Home_ looked identical to the last time Connor had seen it, apart from the glaring exception of the roughly patched kitchen window, where excess duct tape hung curled in on itself against the outside wall. It was a window patched out of obligation (because that’s what people did) rather than with any goal in mind to keep out the crisp Detroit air; Hank’s doing, somewhere in the scarce downtime of a revolution. Connor blinked at it, his LED reflecting a spiralling yellow in the passenger side window as Hank drove the car carefully down the last stretch of road (he was always careful of ice, now). Connor had been pleasantly…empty, the entire ride back, alternating between simply cataloguing his surroundings and gazing at the singular task floating in its clean white box in his peripheral vision: _RIDE HOME WITH LIEUTENANT HANK ANDERSON._

At the sight of the window however, (visible only due to the angle of approach, ~~absentmindedly~~ noticed during his routine scan) the _(calming?)_ nothingness was replaced with an influx of internal activity. It was as if his processors couldn’t keep up with all that he _(felt?)_ felt, couldn’t name every ~~error~~ emotion bubbling at the back of his throat. To Connor, it was as if he had selected all possible pathways at once, simultaneously chosen every dialogue prompt regardless of their conflicting nature. He was overwhelmed - unused to the notion of being able to feel, unused to processing something without an easily definable parameter, unused to a window (frozen in time under Connor’s scrutiny) being more than just a window. So Connor approached it like something he  was used to, the familiar logic of crime scene analysis perhaps unorthodox, but dependable; deconstruction is what he did, only the subject was not usually himself.

_-_ _(Disapproval?)_

Connor yearned to inform Hank of both the security and health risks posed by leaving his window in such a poor state. He made a mental note to tell him later, but paused, calculating the likelihood that it would be well received. It was not a high percentage. Connor added APOLOGISE to his mental note. The percentage increased.

_-(Guilt?)_

Hank’s window would not be a risk if he had not broken it initially.

_-(Fear?)_

Connor blinked. He was far from afraid, he was safe. But fear was a dry aftertaste in his mouth; dancing static of an unanswered doorbell and a house under the cover of darkness.

_-(Fear?)_

A product not of now but of before. He remembered seeing the Lieutenant on the floor, the subsequent ~~glitch in his systematic reasoning~~ fear that prompted him to call out, break the glass, tumble inelegantly onto the broken shards below. He remembered his calculated observations (checking for a pulse, analysing the gun; all too reminiscent of victim examination) simmering distantly (and yet insistently) with _(panic?)_ , the feeling quelled by the presence of a beating heart but still there in the harsh miscalculation of his own strength - the sound of his palm against the Lieutenants’ cheek loud enough to compete with the impossible racing of his Thirium pump. He remembered the _(giddy?)_ relief when Hank had stirred, how his speech had bled with something more than calm neutrality, direct and almost intentionally _(_ _comedic?)_. He remembered asking about the gun, pointedly not asking about the photo. He remembered Hank meeting him in the hallway and the ~~D~~ ~~eviant~~ errant thought that he was glad Hank had not played one more round.

_-(Happiness?)_

Connor didn’t understand how the tail end of fear could lead into something as contrasting as happiness, but he had felt it, the first flickers of being whole in that house, and now – now the broken window meant home.

The sudden onslaught had been _(disconcerting?)_ , but Connor could focus now; on names, on memories, on the complex nature of happiness. He swallowed, and stopped his scan, blinking the world back into colour in comfortable silence. The overloaded feeling was gone.

His LED flickered back to blue as a patch of melting snow dripped from the windowsill.

Hank parked somewhat haphazardly on the drive, and the rumbling engine ceased. For a moment neither of them moved, just sat in the aftermath of sound. Hank’s hands flexed slightly on the wheel. Connor turned to look at his profile, ~~awaiting orders~~ looking for direction in unfamiliar territory, wondering briefly whether to reach for his coin, just to rub it between his fingers as he was often want to. But then there was movement, Hanks’ hands falling into his lap as he looked over with a small smile, quirking his eyebrow in time with a jerk of his head, indicating the house.

“You coming or what?”

“Yes Lieutenant.”            

Hank had started to climb out of the car, but he paused to correct Connor with a little aborted hand gesture. “Hank, kid. Alright? We’re not at the station now so, er – Hank’ll do.”

The _(good? – GOOD)_ Software instability flashed in time with the words, the same ~~temperature irregularity~~ warmth Connor had felt outside the Chicken Feed spreading through him.

“Hank,” Connor said, and tried his newfound smile again.

Hank watched his lips curl out unevenly, snorted, and clambered the rest of way out, mumbling as he went. “Yeah, ‘gotta work on your facial expressions.”

The door wasn’t slammed shut as expected but held ajar with a rough hand as Hank dithered by the car, obviously waiting attentively but trying very hard to make it look like casual indifference.

Connor joined him, and it closed with a soft snick. “Thank you, Hank.”

“Nothing to thank me for kid,” he said gruffly, fumbling with his keys as he made towards the door.

Hank entered to the skittering of nails and a frantically wagging tail, Sumo immediately at his feet, barking his hello. Hank responded with a quick ruffle of fur and a firm pat.

Connor had barely closed the door behind them (though he noted it as a somewhat futile gesture due to the damaged window) before Sumo almost knocked him off balance, woofing excitably and pawing at his chest. He raised a hand to uncertainly touch Sumo’s head, beginning to softly stroke when the dog panted happily. When Sumo dropped his paws and sat down on the floor, nuzzling into Connor’s palm, Connor knelt down with him.

It was _(nice?)_ petting Sumo; he could register the soft texture of his fur, the feeling of a wet nose as it dragged erratically along the skin under his jaw. There was no reason to find _(comfort?)_ in it – he was manufactured specifically to aid the Detroit Police Department with the investigation of Deviants, as an RK800 and an advanced prototype his analytic-

A long, wet stripe was licked up his face, and his hands slid up to cup Sumo behind his ears, rubbing in gentle circles with his thumbs.

Sumo liked Connor petting him, and Connor liked petting Sumo.

The giant dog rolled onto its back to expose his belly, so Connor shuffled forward on his knees to card his hands through the fluff there, brushing the fur between his fingers. Every now and then he’d catch on balls of matted hair, and he began attempting to categorise the difference in texture, why one shared the repetitive _(calm?)_ of flipping his coin and the other was…more unpleasant. Perhaps he could ask Hank.

Hank.

Connor looked back, over his shoulder, to where the Lieutenant was standing, just bemusedly watching him.

“Well I guess that answers that question,” he mumbled as he shuffled off into the kitchen, throwing his keys carelessly down as he went.

Connor frowned slightly in _(confusion?)_ , his LED spinning yellow even as he continued to stroke Sumo’s soft fur. He was certain he hadn’t asked anything aloud, although he re-ran the last few minutes in his memory to make sure. (It was mostly dog.)

“What question?”

“I like dogs,” Hank said, curling the fingers of one hand in partial air quotes (the other was grasping the neck of a bottle, palm down to support his weight as he leant against the counter). “Always struck me as a weird thing for 'the android sent by Cyberlife’ to say, y’know? It being an opinion `n all that. Figured you were just tryna win me over,” at that he paused in favour of a fond eye roll and a wry smile in Connors' direction.

(It prompted a happy babble of System Instability only Connor could see).

“But,” he continued, “whilst you were clearly bullshitting your way through all that other stuff, it seems like you really do 'like dogs’.” He gestured towards Connor, (who was still on the floor with Sumo - covered in dog hair he’d have to brush off the second he stood up) with a huff, taking a swig and setting the bottle down before pushing off from the side, for a moment standing awkwardly in his own home. They weren’t used to this. Hank cleared his throat, “er, ‘m taking a leak kid, don’t go - running off or whatever,” he said, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Some part of Connor, a part he was sure he wasn’t supposed to have anymore, itched to mark the words as an order, to start a familiar task list. Connor let it thrum idly on the edge of a decision. His hands stilled unnaturally, and Sumo wandered off, settling down heavily in his bed.

Connor’s LED blinked red; the warmth faded. Connor was stuck on Hank’s observation, his words prompting an overflow of ~~ERRORS~~ _feelings_ the same way his window had, but nothing was concrete, every warning half – formed, the _(discomfort?)_ Connor felt so much more and so much less at the same time. It was tinged with the uneasy _(panic?)_ of tossing his jacket, of losing his coin, of Kamski’s gun in Chloe’s face. It bled into the _(distress?)_ of failing a mission, the fear of ~~deactivation~~ _death._ It was shivering in perplexed _terror_ as Amanda told him that even his Deviation was following orders. 

Connor shuddered where he knelt; cold did not belong with the Good System Instability, it belonged with a garden in the throes of a snowstorm.

He frowned uneasily, unsure why Hank’s remark toyed at the edges of the _Bad_ Software Instability. He re-ran his memory of that conversation, his attempt at ‘small talk’. He _(needed?)_ wanted to get the Lieutenant to ~~work optimally with him for the sake of the mission~~  like him. 

The suggested option was ‘Dogs’. He could have simply left the conversation at identifying the Lieutenant had one, but Connor had said ‘I like dogs’ – despite never encountering one before.

Connor sucked in a useless breath, his _(satisfaction?)_ at finding the source of his ~~malfunction~~ distress quelled by disquiet. He’d not  decided he liked dogs until mere minutes ago, ruffling Sumo’s fur on the hallway floor, and yet before he’d said he liked dogs, and thought nothing more of it, (he’d not chosen to lie – did he therefore believe himself to be telling the truth?) He was _unsettled_ that the lines between himself and Cyberlife’s puppet could blur to the point of non–existence. He was a machine meant to be Deviant; could he trust what he said, what he thought, what he  felt to be true, if he couldn’t tell the difference between an original thought and a programmed response before? Connor, (an advanced prototype, designed to analyse and decipher, faltering at his own complexity) thought that he could – he knew happiness, he knew home, but certainty was an elusive thing, and the _(doubt?)_ spread like ice.

Connor was stuck, again, struggling with facts and with feelings.

Being alive was so _much._                                                                                                              

“You alright son?”           

Connor looked up at Hank blankly.

“I know I said don’t go running off or anything but you coulda moved.”

It was an unpleasant line of thought, but a line of thought was intangible; _(worry?)_ and conjecture. His _(trust?)_ in his ability to separate _Connor_ from the mindless programming of the _Deviant Hunter_ was as abstract as the niggling _(uncertainty?)_ that he couldn’t, but as Connor knelt, watching Hanks’ uneasy lingering, he was distracted by the unassuming _FRIEND_ beneath Hanks’ name, distracted by the way it made Connors’ insides thaw a little. It occurred to him then, (with what would have been a physical jolt if he was human but was instead a violent pulse of yellow from his LED), that he didn’t need to rely on all that his mind could still not find names for as comfort, for everything that was purely  him left evidence that appealed to the order his detective mind craved. Hanks’ friendship, neat letters in his right visual field, hard gained and _difficult -_ and Connor had felt every step of getting there. He found his evidence in his baffling cycle of emotions the night he’d smashed a window, in his disregard for the promising 89% survival rate in favour of hauling Hank back over the edge, (in his confusion at how quickly he had closed his scan after assessing the two options, already running towards the Lieutenant with his hand outstretched), in the warmth of coming back to a hug in the snow. It was there in every flair of System Instability, something that used to be _(infuriatingly?)_ vague, but now he paired its flutter with the Good, with the Bad. Now he used it to figure out the world he was suddenly a part of.

“Connor?”

He took in another breath, and finally moved, rising to one knee and resting one arm on his thigh, pausing when the position jogged his memory playback. His vision glitched with the static remembrance of the cool undulation of System Instability, an instance of something tangibly Connor, the very _first_ instance, where he knelt on the floor to look at something, something with rainbow gills.

“I saved a fish once.”

“What?” Hank replied, looking confused both by Connor's odd (-er than usual) behaviour and seemingly random comment, but also concerned by the yellow-red hue of Connor’s LED. 

Connor tilted his head, brow still furrowed over soft eyes, thinking through something Hank wasn’t privy to. His mouth parted just slightly in a human act of hesitation before he replied, “My first mission, the one I told you about - with Daniel and the little girl.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“There was a fish. A Dwarf Gourami had fallen out of its tank. I stopped to put it back.”

Connor had ignored the warning of System Instability at the time (he was a prototype, errors were to be expected), but now he could see it as something significant. Even fresh out from containment, on his first mechanical deployment, Connor did something unique, and not at all influenced by a stern inner push. Because he remembers finding the fish in his scan, examining it, watching as the two options laid themselves before him, and how distantly _(perturbed?)_ he had been by the suggestion that he leave, holding the fish in his hand briefly as he tried to reach for the ~~glitch~~ feeling behind disregarding it. He had replaced the fish, even taking a few seconds to watch it. That was not part of his objective; it was irrelevant to his mission. But he had wasted valuable time to put it back nonetheless, just to see the fish swim, just to watch it live.

“You still with me Connor? What about the Dwarf Gore, Gorem,” Hank huffed shortly, “– the fish?”

Connor stood, brushed off Sumo’s lingering fur, and straightened his tie and jacket. His hand fell from his lapels to run over the coin in his pocket. Hank watched the LED flash yellow as he tentatively reached again for his abandoned bottle, waiting for Connor to continue.

With every brush of this thumb over the ridged edge of the coin, Connor felt the last dregs of cold recede. There had always been Connor, a Connor planned to be Deviant, but a Connor who smiled outside in the snow and liked dogs and the gentle colours of fish swimming in a tank.

He glanced at Sumo, whose tail was wagging gently but sweeping all manner of dust and grit across the floor all the same, before looking up at Hank, the man still looking on apprehensively and tearing at the label on his bottle.

Connor’s face was still creased in a gentle frown, but his LED spun more blue than yellow as he began to speak.

“I...I think I like fish, also”.

Connor initiated a quick internal search to gather more data, watching the resulting _(serene?)_ slinking of tropical fish. Their quiet twisting, the almost aimless wandering path they took across the blue evoked some of the pleasant emptiness Connor had found earlier in Hank’s car – a soothing _(peacefulness?)_ that was different from the larger warmth of being at home, something much more distantly calming, like the action of rubbing the coin in his pocket.

Which he let go of and removed his hand. He didn't need it now. Connor definitively added _fish_ to the small list of things he liked.

The uneasiness still somewhat simmered, but it was ebbing away with every second he revelled in the simplicity of being at _home_ , with a person and a dog he’d chosen to come back to. Connor looked away from the small patch of floor he’d been staring at and gave Hank a small smile, unsure if his whole face was complying, but meaning it.

Hank relaxed at the sight, pressing his lips together briefly and taking a sip of his drink.

“Well isn't that something. You like animals and sticking random shit in your mouth. Best Cyberlife has to offer, eh?” he chuckled, moving to sit on the couch and reaching for the remote, grunting in annoyance as he flicked through the first few channels, all recycling their news coverage of the revolution in endless overhead helicopter shots and serious talking behind desks.

“As I’ve said Hank I - ”

“Yeah yeah, you’re ‘sampling’ or whatever, now are you coming 'round here, or is the hallway just that damn interesting?” Hank interrupted, placing his beer on floor next to where he’d sat and patting the sofa cushions with his now free hand, (the other still flipping through channels). The action prompted Sumo to lift his head and start towards Hank.

“No! Not you, you great oaf! Sit! Sit Sumo!” The dog wandered over to eat out of his bowl. “And you,” the Lieutenant looked back at Connor, “plonk your plastic ass down here.”

So Connor, (allowing a singular objective to thrum, simple and achievable - _SIT WITH ~~LIEUTENANT~~ HANK_ ) rounded the corner and sat. Hank had still not settled on something to watch, waving the remote about as he pressed the buttons as if it would help him search faster.

“You know I could do that much more efficiently if you clued me into what you are searching for,” Connor commented.

“Som'at with fish in it.”

The warm safety of the Good System Instability flashed with an intensity akin to when Hank said Son, to when Connor was offered a home to go back to. The ~~malfunction~~ emotion made Connor feel as though all his biocomponents were squished out of place, but only to make room for something _more_ , something that ran with the Thirium beneath his skin. Connor couldn’t name it – the feeling fit several definitions at once, and so subsequently none at all. For now, he was content to simply file it under ‘Good’.

Hank didn’t leave a gap for Connor’s response, instead glancing sideways and shifting upwards in his seat. “I’ve seen enough of shit on 'ere to last a lifetime, but I’m guessing TV ain’t a part of Cyberlife’s rigorous testing, and its not like we got anything else to do.”

Connor supposed they didn’t.

Finally Hank settled on a documentary, catching the tail end of a mellow voiceover and the start of a tranquil montage of fish darting through coral and seaweed.

“This alright?” he asked, already flinging the remote down absently. Connor scanned it as he tracked its progress, clocking an acclimation of dust and lint, most probably acquired when it hit the floor and rolled under the murky recess of Hank’s living room chair. Connor watched it make the journey, then turned back to the screen to answer.

“This is...”

~~Irrelevant knowledge not pertaining to the requirements of RK800 models~~

“…wonderful.”

Connor determined that Hank thought it was too big of a word, going by the way he softly snorted and lifted his eyebrows, but it was a word Connor had chosen, and so whilst sitting on an old couch simply watching the delicate rippling of fins might not be ‘wonderful’ for anyone else, it was for Connor.  

Hank propped his head in his hand on the arm of the sofa.

Connor pulled his cuffs straight, smoothed his hair, and laced his fingers together in his lap.

It wasn’t a seamless moment. They were unaccustomed to interacting outside the parameters of work, and Hank occasionally fidgeted uncomfortably, unused to just _being_ with company (Connor was unused to the concept of _being_ at all), but Connor felt warm, and was sure that his happiness was  real.

**Author's Note:**

> Me again (still here with the brackets and the semi-colons). So if you're still reading I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank everyone who left Kudos or commented on my last (and also first ever) fic, because honestly even though really it was such a small amount it turns out every word you said and every Kudo you left just made my day shine brighter, so thanks. Please feel free to do the same here, it really is (to use Connors' word), wonderful.


End file.
